


dream about that casual touch

by mazily



Category: Holby City
Genre: F/F, Scrub In
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-05
Updated: 2018-10-08
Packaged: 2019-07-07 13:59:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15909651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mazily/pseuds/mazily
Summary: They're not really dating.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Hayley Kiyoko. 
> 
> Thanks to Luna for helping with the brain weasels and betaing the words.

The wedding's a--well, it's a wedding, Serena supposes, like any other wedding before or after: bridesmaids in tacky dresses and a blushing bride and a halfway to pissed groom. Elinor trying to hide how many drinks she's had, dress the wrong color for her complexion but a flattering fit, laughing at something her new step-mother just said. Serena takes another sip of her (cheap, possibly corked, definitely terrible) wine and tries to hide her wince.

"That bad?" her date asks.

"Worse, if you can believe it," Serena answers.

*

"Fuck," Serena says, "Is the door-"

Bernie's mouth is busy, sucking at the skin behind Serena's ear, nipping at her earlobe and soothing the pain; an intoxicating cycle that Serena never wants to end, which is why she keeps blindly reaching out to check the lock on the door, ready to jump out of her skin as a laughing crowd stumbles down the corridor just outside the single occupancy they've taken possession of.

"Locked," Bernie finally says. Her hand brushing against Serena's, double-checking. Another kiss to Serena's neck, and, "Definitely locked."

"Good," Serena says, and her hands busy themselves pulling Bernie's hair free of the hairpins she'd used to tame it into some semblance of neat. Her fingers catch a bit of a tangle, and she pulls a bit harder than she'd meant to. Bernie moans. Serena pulls a bit harder still, maneuvering Bernie's head until she can pull her back in for another kiss.

She loses time kissing Bernie. Loses time, and sense, and Bernie turns out to be just as talented at kissing as she is in theatre. Her fingers just as nimble with Serena's suspenders, with Serena herself as they are with a scalpel.

Serena reaches down. Unbuttons Bernie's trousers, fumbles with the zip in her haste to touch Bernie's skin. Her fingers slip beneath Bernie's lacy knickers, and it's only a moment of surprise at the fact of them. Delight and surprise. Bernie's hips move. Serena's wrist twists, a sharp burn at the angle, and she can't quite manage to get comfortable. "No," she says, trying to shift position, "This won't-"

Bernie panics. Eyes wide and immediately pulling away, and Serena pulls her hand from Bernie's knickers and tries to hold her in place with both arms at Bernie's hips. "No," she explains, "No, Bernie, I just. I need you to help me get your trousers down before I lose circulation in my arm."

Bernie laughs. Loud and immediately charming, her entire body relaxing in an instant. Their arms tangle as they work to pull Bernie's trousers down past her thighs. Bernie smiles, mouth stretched wide, leans in to kiss Serena again. Says, "I'd hate to be the cause of the end of your surgical career. Can't think Hansen would be best pleased if I lost him his best vascular surgeon."

Serena presses her own smile against Bernie's mouth; unable to stop the glowing feeling running up and down her body at that recognition of her surgical skills. She pushes Bernie's pants down to her knees. Bernie's hips keep rocking ever closer, and Serena reaches down, fingers pressing up into Bernie, thrilled at the slickness. Her thumb moves to Bernie's clit, and it's heat, and it's shock, and it's hands and mouths and neither of them sure who is making which desperate sound. Both of them in a frantic race to come.

Serena feels buzzy and warm all over. Ready to perform seventeen vein grafts in a row and in need of three days' sleep. She and Bernie kiss for what feels like forever, soft and sloppy and lit in pastel colors. Suspended in time. A banging on the door, "I'm going to be sick," and they separate and straighten up in tandem. Wash their hands--Serena has a sudden vision of the two of them scrubbing out, side by side at the sinks, cheeks flushed with the high of a successful surgery--and head back out into the reception with their hands brushing. Flirting with the idea of entwined fingers, of palms pressed together.

The music turns upbeat. Dance-y and far too young for anyone on the groom’s side (save his daughter, currently grinding with some fit young lad Serena’s never seen before and assumes she never will again).

“Right,” Bernie says. “Look, I know this isn't a real date, and I don’t want to make things awkward, more awkward that is, but I--”

“Your room or mine?” Serena says, when it’s clear Bernie will keep making excuses, explaining the inexplicable, until the confetti’s been cleared up and the twenty-somethings are all in bed. She crooks her eyebrow. Offers her arm. Is pretty sure she hears, barely audible over the cheers and music, Bernie say  _ ding dong _ .

*

"I can't believe you," Elinor says. She’s waiting in the corridor outside Serena’s hotel room when Serena steps off the lift in the early hours of morning (still dressed in her wedding finery, with Bernie’s hospital hoodie zipped up to hide a love bite not quite covered by the neckline of her dress), sunglasses on and her hair in a messy knot atop her head.

Serena can tell from years of observing Elinor in a strop that Elinor is just holding back from tapping her feet, saying something caustic, as she watches Serena fumble for her keycard in her clutch, press it to the lock and open the door. Elinor sweeps inside the room like it’s hers instead of her mother’s, and doesn’t wait for the door to finish closing behind Serena before she continues, “What are you even thinking.”

“Ellie,” Serena says. Half-question and half chastisement, and she wishes more than anything that she could believe that Elinor isn't about to make a scene of things. Wishes, just for a moment, that her daughter was another person entirely. She takes a deep breath, exhales as she counts to five, to ten. Gives thanks that Bernie shared her tea, the room service she’d set up the morning prior  _ “in case I decided to match your Shiraz intake—Ric warned me about you.” _

She sits down on the end of the bed, reaches out to pull Elinor down to sit next to her. Wraps her arms around Elinor’s upper arm, rests her head against Elinor’s. Tries to show her daughter how much she loves her through osmosis and bloody-minded determination. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to be more specific, darling,” she prods, “Because in all honesty all I’m thinking about right now is whether or not I can squeeze in a quick nap before I have to check out.”

"I know you’re upset about Dad marrying Liberty,” Elinor finally says. She pulls away—Serena tries to stop her face giving away how much that stings—and turns to look at her, eyes focused largely on the Holby City logo on Bernie’s hoodie. “But did you have to make a scene with your so-called Sapphic dalliance? I mean, you’re not even a lesbian, so I don’t know who you think you’re fooling with that."

"Ellie," Serena says. Tries to inject a sense of danger into her voice.

"It's just pathetic, Mum," Elinor says.

What Serena hears is  _ you’re pathetic _ . Her eyes sting, burn. She feels like she's going to crumble into pieces, to shake apart entirely. To start crying right here in her unmade bed, like she’s fifteen instead of fifty, broken hearted and overwhelmed and unsure of anything. Instead she reaches out, brushes a couple of strands of hair from Elinor's face, tucking them behind her ear.  

“My sexuality is not pathetic,” Serena says. “I’m sorry if-”

"You're not a lesbian," Elinor interrupts. “I know you’re not.”

She has that look on her face that practically shouts that she knows she's hit a nerve; she has the knack, much like Serena herself, like Adrienne before her. A family tradition. Only she's managed to get it all wrong somehow: Serena's not upset about her sexuality, not anymore. She does feel a bit pathetic, caught out by her daughter slipping into her hotel room the morning after what is destined to be a one night stand. And she did bring a woman she’s not actually dating to her ex-husband’s wedding; she did care enough what everyone thought to let her best friend arrange a date with Serena’s barely-a-coworker, to call that woman her girlfriend when anyone asked.

So, yes, she does feel a bit like she's trying too hard to compete. Like she's failing.

"Of course I'm not a lesbian," she says. "I told you last Christmas that I'm bisexual, right before you decided you'd rather spend the rest of your holiday with your father and Liberty. That hasn't changed in the intervening time."

Elinor rolls her eyes. Serena resists the urge to throttle her.

"And then to pretend to spend the night with her, so, what, Dad might see you sneaking around and die of jealousy or something," Elinor says. She pulls her knees up in front of her on the bed, wraps her arms around her legs. “It’s just gross, Mum. That’s all.”

Serena spots a strand of blonde hair on the sleeve of her borrowed hoodie, finds herself smiling despite herself. Blushes when Elinor glares at her even harder, suddenly unable to stop herself thinking about the taste of Bernie's mouth. Completely inappropriate in the middle of an argument with her daughter, which only makes her flush more.

"So gross," Elinor repeats. She stands, eyes rolling yet again--Serena bites her tongue to stop making a comment about getting that checked by a medical professional--and mouth in a snarl. She checks her makeup in the mirror, kisses the top of Serena’s head with a muttered  _ love you _ , and flounces out of the room like  _ so gross  _ is somehow a winning argument. That her mother must now be a blubbering mess of a pathetic old divorcee slowly morphing into a crone.

Serena lies down on her back, arms at her sides. Tries to regulate her breathing, to stop her insides from buzzing. Her hands--normally so steady, a surgeon's hands--shake slightly as her rage and embarrassment and lust and disappointment all battle for supremacy beneath her skin. Her vision starts to go blurry and she feels her face start to crumple, ugly and cracking, a monstrous out of control feeling.

She rolls onto her side, tries to curl herself up into a ball. She starts to cry.

*

(Later, in the queue to check out, a flash of blonde hair out of the corner of her eye will make her almost miss her turn. Make them call for the next patron twice, make her glare when the man behind her tries to push ahead. And when it is Bernie, after all, with a duffle and a garment bag, smoking a cigarette just outside the hotel door, Serena will trip over her own tongue,  _ too much too soon too much _ a looping circle in her head. Bernie will say, “Right, we’ll leave it confined to ex-husband’s weddings and say no more about it.” She will kiss Serena’s cheek and walk away and never hear Serena’s too-late answering, “That’s not what I want.”)

*

"You absolute  _ minx _ ."

Serena startles, arm twitching and--"fuck, let me just," as she reaches across the desk for a tissue, damp spreading across her blouse--knocking over her cup, a stack of papers, her computer mouse dangling by its cord. Her blouse is a loss for the day; she’ll have to change into her scrubs and not a single surgery on her schedule. She grimaces. Pats at the stain, tries to blot it out of existence.

“I’ll pay for the dry cleaning,” Fleur says, and that’s when Serena’s mind catches up to just who is standing just inside her office door, who that voice belongs to. She’s on her feet and across the room before she makes the decision to stand.

She pulls Fleur into a hug. “When did you, what are you?”

“Surprise,” Fleur says. She kisses Serena’s cheek, and Serena reciprocates before leading Fleur into the office. Closing the door behind them. “I’m not officially back until next week, but I stopped in to say hello and catch up on all the gossip.”

“I didn’t realize you were even coming back,” Serena says.

“Oh, well,” Fleur says. She sits on the edge of Serena’s desk. “It’s all very hush-hush. James Bond himself couldn’t get it out of me.”

“Ah,” Serena says. She leans against a filing cabinet, arms crossed across her chest. Quirks an eyebrow. “But then he wouldn’t be the right person to seduce you into talking anyway. Miss Moneypenny on the other hand…”

Fleur laughs. “Well I’m a one woman woman these days, so even she’d be out of luck,” she says. She winks. She’s utterly ridiculous, and Serena missed her more than she could’ve expected. “Which brings me back to the topic at hand.”

“What you’re doing here?” Serena asks. She’s lost. Has no idea what Fleur’s on about.

“Last I knew, I was the only exception to your died in the wool heterosexuality, a drunken late night snog and nothing more,” Fleur says. Serena opens her mouth to interrupt, closes it at a look from Fleur. “A good snog,” Fleur says, “But just a snog. So imagine my surprise when Doris tells me that you’re dating that striking locum they got to try to replace me on Keller.”

Serena’s hand goes to her pendant, and she starts to twist the chain between her fingers. “Well, that’s not exactly,” she says. She struggles with how to explain that, Dominic Copeland’s love of hospital gossip to the contrary, she and Bernie aren’t even really friends, let alone dating.

“I leave the country for mere seconds, and suddenly you’re all out and proud bisexual.” Fleur sounds accusatory. She sounds proud. Serena’s head feels like it’s going to catch fire, spin right off her neck, roll down the corridor and chuck itself into an MRI machine for extensive testing.

“I don’t know how out I really am, but after we,” Serena says, waving her hand between the two of them in lieu of saying the words, “Well, I did a bit of soul-searching. Realized a couple of things, well one thing in particular, about myself.”

Fleur’s eyes light up. “Oh,” she says, “I’m  _ good _ .”

“And then I spent a fair bit of time trying to drink that realization away,” Serena adds.

“And now look at you,” Fleur says. She stands, holds out her arms. “Come on, give us a hug, and then tonight we’re going to get good and pissed and you are going to tell me everything.”

“There’s really nothing to tell,” Serena says.

“Oh, I doubt that,” Fleur says. She steps away, hands clasping around Serena’s, her expression far too mischievous for Serena’s peace of mind. Serena sighs. Sighs again, more dramatically, for effect.

*

(Months later, when she remembers a flash of that night, she’ll flush bright with embarrassment at the way she said Bernie’s name, lingering over the feel of it. The way she described Bernie’s hair. The way Fleur laughed, and plied her with more Shiraz, and said, “tell me more about the way she tastes and how you’re not really dating and the length of her fingers, only this time with more detail.” The way Serena actually did all of that, told her all of that and more, the way Dom joined them halfway through the evening and looked so bloody amused and so bloody smug and the way Serena just drank more wine and didn’t even realize.)

*

It's practically a record: less than a fifteen minutes into her shift, and she already has to force herself to relax. To take a deep breath, think about something other than the curve of Bernie's index finger, the taste of her mouth, the sound of her--

Well, she tries. She absolutely tries.

Bernie follows her into her office after Hanssen takes his leave, closes the door to the ward behind her and watches as Serena paces back and forth across the small room. "Look," Bernie says. She brushes a bit of hair back behind her ear, head tilted down and eyes refusing to look at Serena. "I’m sorry. I didn’t know, not until Hanssen summoned me this morning. And I had no idea he hadn’t even asked you first."

“I can’t believe him,” Serena fumes. Another consultant, on her ward. A bloody co-lead. Sure, she’d asked for more robust staffing--AAU is a busy ward, and as perpetually understaffed as any other busy ward--but she’d meant another junior doctor, more nurses, a porter or two. She definitely had not requested a co-lead.

“I can go tell him no,” Bernie offers. “Tell him I’ve changed my mind, that the NHS isn’t for me after all.”

Serena believes her. Bernie would quit a brand new job because Serena's upset about the situation, would pack up her belongings and go at Serena's word. And, yes, Serena reasons, she could find a new position in a heartbeat: she's at the top of her field, so she could probably get her own ward for far more money outside the NHS. 

"No," Serena blurts out. Bernie's head pops up, and Serena worries that maybe she was a bit too emphatic. "No, stay," she adds, aiming for (and likely falling short of) nonchalant. "If Hanssen’s determined that AAU needs two consultants, I’d rather a,” and she stumbles for the right word, the best way to describe the two of them, “Well, someone I hope can be a friend rather than a complete stranger."

“Are you sure?” Bernie asks.

"I am." Serena holds out her hand, watches as Bernie takes it. As they shake hands. And suddenly she has a co-lead. Maybe even an equal, not that she's going to admit it.  

It's not perfect; they clash, and Serena sometimes grasps at her control of the ward with a desperation that surprises even her (and she knows her own ambition, knows all of her own flaws better than anyone). But she's never met anyone with whom she works so well, especially in theatre, and Bernie seems happier (Serena thinks she looks happier). They make it work. 

And then one day Serena is in a board meeting when the ward is overwhelmed--they don't have enough beds, nor anything else, and Bernie runs things like she would in the field. Takes control, lets everyone see how terribly her skills are being wasted. Serena returns to AAU ready to punch at least four board members only to come up short at the sight of Bernie running their ward. Heart pounding in her chest, turned on and furious in equal measure. She clenches her hands. Spins on her heels and goes to change into her scrubs: it looks like there's work to be done, and she's never been one to shirk her duty.

*

"A trauma unit," Serena repeats, when Hanssen continues to stare at her blankly. "On AAU."

"Right," he says. "Only you do know our current financial state."

She waves his concerns away; she's thought this through, has thought of little else since Bernie first joined her on AAU (only Bernie herself has occupied more of her thoughts), and she's certain this will work. "I'll get the funding," she says. And she will: there are private grants she can apply for, funding sources she knows about but kept secret in case of emergency. "And of course, I'll need you to finalize Ms. Wolfe's contract before she decides she's tired of me, us, and runs off to another war zone."

"Of course," Hanssen says. "I'll just. Prepare the paperwork."

"Wonderful," Serena says. "I'll put together an official proposal and get it to you by, shall we say month's end?"

"I'll need it at least a week before the next board meeting," Hanssen says, checking his calendar. "So if you want it voted on at the start of next month I'll need it by the 24th. Otherwise, it will go before the board at the meeting after that."

Serena nods. "The 24th it is," she says. She types the date into her phone, sets a couple of reminders, and returns the phone to her pocket. She and Hanssen shake hands, and she thanks him for the opportunity.

"As if the road needs thanking by the steamroller," he says. And chuckles, one quick bark of amusement at his own joke before his face returns to its customary deadpan. "I'll get Ms. Wolfe's contract to her by the end of the week. I assume that will be soon enough to stop her running off to Sudan."

"Perfect," Serena says. She's almost, not quite, sure he smiles as she turns away to leave.

*

"That's my son," Bernie says. "Oh god, is Fletch, shit, is he telling him about us, fake us, does he-"

Serena places her hand on Bernie's upper arm. Steers her back and away from her son, leads her into their office and guides her to the closest chair without a stack of papers threatening to topple over on it. "Sit," she says, "Breathe," and Bernie obeys. Serena stands close. Rests her hip against the edge of her desk. Leans toward Bernie, tries not to reach out for her. "Now start from the beginning."

"Cam," Bernie says. She stops. Takes a deep breath, seems to collect her thoughts. "The young man from the car accident is my son, Cam. I haven't, he hasn't spoken to me since the divorce--and then only to sign on to Marcus's ridiculous claims about my fitness as a mother--and he's here, and-"

"Fletch," Serena finishes.

"He does know," Bernie says, "That you and I, we're, that this isn't real?"

Serena fidgets, fingers playing with her necklace, the realization that this is all her fault coming fast and furious. That she's the one to upset Bernie this much. Because she'd meant to explain everything to Fletch, when he'd offered to come to the wedding as her plus one, to glare at every former family member to look at her askance. When she'd told him it wasn't necessary. Said she was going with Bernie,  _ you know the locum on Keller _ , and he'd grinned and congratulated her; her mouth was open to explain, she'd had the words  _ not real _ and  _ not like that _ on the tip of her tongue, when Morven called for help and a patient began to crash and, "Uh," Serena says, now, in her office with a visibly upset Bernie. "I meant to tell him," she says, "Only, well, between one thing and another, I think maybe not?"

"Oh god," Bernie says. "What do I do?"

Serena can't help herself. She reaches out, brushes a curl back behind Bernie's ear. She's about to offer to talk to Cam herself, to introduce herself and explain that his mother had been doing her a wonderful favor by escorting her to her ex-husband's wedding, that they're coworkers and possibly friends but nothing more, when there's a knock on the door.

Fletch pops his head inside. He looks incorrigibly proud and amused, all at once, and Serena counts to ten to keep from sacking him on the spot. He's too good a nurse to lose. A good enough man, too, most of the time. "Look, I know it's not exactly according to protocol," he says, "But I've got a young man here wants to talk to the major in private."

And then Bernie's son is right there inside their office. A cut on his forehead but looking none the worse for wear, and Bernie unable to look away from him. "Hi mum," he says, and Bernie's up like a shot. She hovers next to him, hands fluttering and nothing at all like her professional self, and Serena takes the momentary distraction to escape unnoticed from the room. To take Fletch aside and explain the entire sordid affair.

*

Serena's halfway through her first bottle by the time Bernie slips into Albie's, a look on her face like she still isn't quite sure what's going on with her life but that maybe it's not all as bad as she'd feared. She orders something at the bar, and turns and scans the crowd once she has a glass of brown in hand. Serena waves her over to their little corner.

There's a small space next to Serena in the booth she's sharing with just about everyone from AAU not currently on shift, and Bernie looks at it, looks away again, seems resigned to standing. So Serena shifts a bit to her right to make more room. Pats the vinyl and waits as Bernie puts her glass down on the table. As Bernie slides next to her, her thigh pressed against Serena's.

"I'm so sorry," Fletch blurts out, interrupting Raf's story about a rather flirtatious patient that Serena's half-convinced is actually Sian using a false name. "If I'd known, I'd never have said a word, but even so I can't believe I thought it was a good idea to gossip about you with your own son. Never again," he says, making a cross across his chest, "I swear."

Bernie blushes. Head ducked, hair begging to be brushed back, a small pleased smile on her lips as she glances over at Serena. After a moment, she schools her features. Looks back up at Fletch and says, "Well, I hope you've learned your lesson. My son is now convinced I'm two steps away from marriage with a coworker, but at least you got a laugh out of it."

Fletch blanches. Almost physically recoils. Bernie laughs, a glorious honking sound, and soon the entire table's laughing with her. Even Fletch. His face is red. They drink, all of them, Serena's AAU family, trading jokes and stories and sharing silences. One by one everyone finishes, leaves, until it's Bernie and Serena pressed side by side.

Bernie looks nervous. Glances around the pub, checks to make sure no one is near enough to overhear. "I," she starts. She finishes off her drink--Serena was careful not to count how many she's had--and turns to face Serena. "You can say no," she says, "I just want you to know that. Only Cam was so happy when he thought we were in love. And I couldn't bring myself to upset him. So when he invited me--invited us, together--for dinner next weekend I agreed."

"Of course I'll join you," Serena says. She rests her hand next to Bernie's on the table. Lets her pinkie brush against Bernie's, lets herself touch even if it's only to give her support. Working together has only made her like Bernie even more, has led to nights out like this and shared pastries and a friendship on which she's starting to depend.

"Only registered later that I'd never quite gotten around to explaining we're not together," Bernie says, falsely casual. She lifts her glass. Stares into the liquid like it's something she can diagnose before placing it down on the table again. "No, that's not true. I knew I hadn't confessed. I just couldn't, not after he'd been so kind about everything."

Serena turns her hand and takes Bernie's hand in her own. "It'll be fine," she says. "You did such a favor for me, putting up with Edward and Elinor's theatrics. I'm happy to do the same for you."

Bernie smiles. Looks like she doesn't know what to do with herself. Serena lets the silence wrap around them, lets herself enjoy the press of Bernie's palm against her own, the feel of their fingers tangled together. Watches as Bernie watches her, feels herself drawn into Bernie's orbit as surely as the earth circles the sun.

"Now tell me about Cam," Serena says. So Bernie does.


	2. Chapter 2

(Dinner with Cam leads to dinner without Cam, to dinners spent bent over the trauma ward proposal, to dinners splitting more than one bottle of wine. To always buying two coffees when they're on the same shift, to surprise cinnamon and chocolate and buttery pastries. Serena will tell Bernie things she's never told anyone else, looking out over Holby from the roof. Bernie will share her cigarettes when they're both too drunk to remember Serena doesn't smoke, will look at the red of Serena's lipstick on her cigarette with wide-eyed surprise and something Serena is afraid to diagnose.)

*

"I was thinking," Serena says, as she picks at her salad, "Should we rope ED into our unit to defray costs, not to mention as a secondary source of staff? Have a few dedicated members of their staff trained properly when--"

Bernie glances around. Tosses a cherry tomato from her own plate to Serena's. "No work talk," she reminds Serena. "Send me an email after you go home tonight if you must, but tonight we discuss, uh," she says, clearly flailing for a change of topic, "Other things."

"The weather has been unseasonably nice lately," Serena says. She spears the cherry tomato with her fork and pops it in her mouth. It explodes between her teeth, sweet and juicy and delicious.

"Oh, absolutely lovely," Bernie says. She looks lovely tonight: dressed in her customary tight trousers and blouse, hair a mess of curls, and yet somehow she looks like she's put in a bit of effort. Though perhaps that's Serena's self-consciousness about how long she spent getting ready influencing her opinion. She's still worried that her date night black dress is a bit too much, tells herself it's in case any of their children or ex-husbands happen past.

Bernie seems intent on shredding her salad to bits. Picking around any hint of onion.

"Oh," Serena says, once their salad plates have been cleared away, "Did I tell you Elinor called the other night?"

"I'd rather not have to threaten your daughter with violence," Bernie says, "So please tell me she was at least polite this time."

"Perfectly," Serena says, and she was. Completely ignored the topics of Serena's sexuality or any so-called mid-life sapphic crisis, and she'd steered their conversation away from Bernie the one time Serena'd mentioned her (in relation to the trauma unit, even), but she'd been polite. Cheery. And she'd only asked for money once.

Bernie squints her eyes dubiously. "So what did she want then?"

"Her flatmate's moving out at the end of the month, and she hinted rather heavily that she'd like to take over the larger bedroom, maybe even live alone even though there's more than enough room for two. I think she wanted me to offer to cover part of the rent, not that she came out and said anything."

Bernie laughs. Shakes her head. The waiter drops off their mains, and Serena tries not to stare too obviously at Bernie and her glorious, completely ridiculous, laughter. The way her face lights up when she laughs. The shape of her nose, the way her fringe almost blocks Serena's view of her eyes.

"So did you offer to take over her lease completely?" Bernie asks. "Pay all her bills while you're at it?"

"Of course," Serena deadpans. "Right after I offered to buy her a pony."

"A pony, really?" Bernie asks. She hasn't swallowed her bite, and Serena's sure she should be more disgusted by the sight of partially chewed aubergine and tomato between her teeth.

"Well, she was rather keen about ponies when she was eleven," Serena says. She eats a bite of her veal before she continues. "Actually, I told her I'd chip in on the camera her father said he'd pay half of, but no more." She shrugs. "I know I ought to be more strict with her, but sometimes it's just so hard to be the mean parent."

"Tell me about it," Bernie says.

They eat in silence for a while. Serena's veal is delicious, supple and seasoned beautifully. She focuses on that. On the slightly overcooked pasta. The perfectly matched Shiraz. The way the candlelight in the dim restaurant dances across Bernie's face, making Serena want her even more than she normally does.

She shifts in her seat, suddenly overly warm. Her foot knocks against Bernie's under the table, and she apologizes. Prays her face isn't too red. Bernie's cheeks look pink--it's the lighting, Serena tells herself--and she accepts Serena's apology readily.

Neither of them move their feet. Agree to split a tiramisu for pudding.

*

"This is all your fault," Serena hisses, not even waiting for Sian to catch up to her at the bar during their regular drinks night. She's perfected the art of hissing words that don't include an s. Sian smiles, thanks the bartender for her cocktail and calmly lifts it from the bar. Takes a long sip, watches as Serena fumes. Ignores the crowd growing around them

Serena picks up her own drink. Swallows it far too quickly--it's practically pure vodka; whatever's coloring it pink is only for show--and orders another of the same before she can second-guess herself.

Once Serena has her second drink in hand, Sian leads her across the bar to a quiet corner. They sit across from each other at the small table, Sian studying Serena like Serena's an esoteric bit of case law.

"Just bring a woman as your date to Edward's wedding," Serena says, mimicking Sian's voice to the best of her admittedly not very strong ability. "It doesn't have to be real, just pick someone random. Edward will be absolutely sick with envy, only he won't be able to say anything without looking like a homophobic git."

"And you did," Sian said. "Have I mentioned how proud I am of you for bringing that woman you kept making eyes at  _ and getting off with her _ too?"

Serena reaches across the table, glances around the bar wildly. "Shhhh," she says, "Don't say that so loudly. We're not, no one else knows about that, and she wasn't much fussed about it anyway, said we should just leave it at Edward's wedding. Too much emotion and alcohol or something ridiculous like that; my brain went a bit fuzzy when she tried to explain."

"Oh, Serena," Sian says. She clasps Serena's hands in her own. "You like her, don't you?"

"Well, of course--"

"And no  _ we're friends, aren't we _ bullshit," Sian interrupts.

Serena slumps in her seat. Unclasps her right hand from Sian's so she can drink herself into oblivion, lets Sian keep hold of her left for the comfort only decades of friendship can impart.

"Your. Fault," Serena repeats.

"I'm sorry," Sian says. "In my defense, while I did know you fancied her, I thought it was just physical, easily sorted by a drunken wedding night shag. Should've known better, really, you always--"

"I do not always," Serena says, "Anything."

"You do," Sian says, "But that's not the point."

"The point?" Serena isn't nearly drunk enough for whatever Sian has to say.

"The point," Sian repeats. "Namely: what are you going to do about it? You fancy her, she'd be a fool not to fancy you and nothing you've told me about her suggests she's a fool, so what are you going to do?"

"Have dinner with her, her children, and Elinor next Sunday?" Serena answers, caught halfway between crying and laughing, a feeling with which she's become far too familar. "All of whom--except Bernie, of course, god forbid--think we're not only dating but ridiculously in love."

"Right," Sian says.

"No, that's not right," Serena corrects herself. "Elinor just thinks I'm a ridiculous over the hill spinster desperate to make her father notice me again. But Bernie's two think we're halfway down the aisle."

Sian pats the back of Serena's hand in what feels like a cross between comfort and pity (and possibly amusement at Serena's predicament). She stands. "I'll just go order us another ten or so rounds," she says, "And then we'll figure out a plan."

Which is when Fleur arrives, something shocking and pink in her hand.

*  

(Later, pressed against Fleur in the back seat of a cab after they've dropped Sian at hers, Serena will tell Fleur that she's very pretty. "But not as pretty as Bernie," she'll add, "Even though her hair's a wild tangle most of the time." Her fingers at the nape of her own neck, playing with the hair there (unsatisfactorily neat, short, not at all right beneath her fingers). "You're a mess, Campbell," Fleur will say. "You're coming over next Saturday. You need more friends in the community, and Doris and the woman you 'don't at all have any sort of feelings for why do you keep rolling your eyes' don't count.")

*

"Good morning," Hanssen says, stepping into the lift with Serena. She's trying to balance two coffees and a paper sack greasy with pastry in one hand while holding her briefcase in the other. "I was just coming down to AAU to discuss the board's vote on your proposal."

"Oh?" Serena says, carefully nonchalant. "Was that this morning? It completely slipped my mind."

"You know very well it was," he says, not even politely pretending  to believe her. The doors slide open, and he gestures for Serena to exit in front of him. "I'll just make a few rounds of the ward while you and Ms. Wolfe get settled in your office."

Bernie's already sat in front of her computer, the light from the monitor reflecting off the reading glasses she likes to pretend she doesn't need. She smiles as Serena enters the room. It's likely the smell of the coffee, the sight of the bag of pastries. The voice in her head strongly reminiscent of her mother's.

"Good morning," Serena says. She passes a coffee into Bernie's waiting hand--"Morning," Bernie says, transferring her cup onto the desk next to her keyboard--and drops her bag onto the floor next to her chair as she places the bag and her own coffee onto the desk. Removes her coat, unwraps the scarf from her neck; listens as Bernie ruffles through the pastry bag, pulls something out and audibly licks the sugar from her fingers. She sits, and Bernie takes a bite from the cinnamon swirl in her hand.

"Was that Hanssen I saw with you?" Bernie asks, mouth partially full.

Serena takes a long swallow of her coffee. "Hm," she says, mouth still on the lid. She puts the cup down. "Yes," she says. "Says he'll stop by after he's made a round of the ward, apparently the board's already voted."

"Oh," Bernie says. "Any insight?"

"Honestly," Serena says, "I've not a clue. It could mean they didn't even read the damned proposal and were going to vote no either way, or it could mean the exact opposite. Either way, I don't love that they couldn't even give it a bit of healthy debate."

"If it helps," Hanssen says, and Serena startles. Spills coffee down her blouse, tries to swallow her curses. Flustered and embarrassed, she pats at the stain with greasy napkins. "Apologies," Hanssen says, "I did knock."

Serena waves away his apology. Bernie passes her clean but damp napkins--"Just water," she says--and Serena thanks her even as she gives up any hope of getting her blouse clean. She drops the napkins into the bin. "I guess it's scrubs for me today," she says.

"I do keep telling you," Bernie says. Serena crumples the last napkin into a ball and flicks it at Bernie, who laughs and drops it onto the desk. Hanssen clears his throat. Continues to stand awkwardly in the open doorway.

"Sorry, Henrik," Serena says. "What did the board say?"

"Right," he says. "They're worried about costs down the line, especially regarding training and dedicated staffing, but," and he smiles, pulls some papers out from somewhere mysterious and hands a stack to each of them, "Congratulations. Subject to a number of contingencies we don't need to discuss right now, your unit has been approved."

Serena takes the papers from Hanssen with a quick  _ thank you _ , passes them over to Bernie to review. Both of them avoiding the other's eyes, both of them bubbling over with the sort of excitement Serena thinks is better suited for a pub than their office. 

"Right," Hanssen says, "I'll take my leave for the moment, but I'll need those forms back--completed, Ms. Wolfe, in full--by the end of the week."

Serena counts to two after he leaves. To three, four, five, exhaultation and exhaustion warring within her; it's all a jumble, her body unable to decide whether to laugh or to cry. "We did it," she finally says. 

Bernie grins, wide and joyful, and holds out her hand a second before Serena offers her own in return. Serena clasps her hand in Bernie's, enjoys the feel of her callouses and soap-rough skin. 

"We did," Bernie says, "We really did."

*

Serena finishes her glass of wine and lets Raf pour her another, determined to remember absolutely nothing of the evening come morning. She tries not to stare too obviously at Bernie as she regales Dom and Sasha with some tale of derring do or another; she can't quite make out anything they're saying over the music, the laughter, the intermittent cheers. They're stood in a bunch near the bar, Bernie with her back to Serena, and Serena tries not to make anything of the look Dom gives her before turning back to his conversation. Bernie laughs that great ridiculous laugh of hers, and Serena feels it in the pit of her stomach.

" _ Serena _ ," Raf says. Practically shouts.

Serena rolls her eyes at herself and turns back to him. "Yes?"

"Finally," he says. "I was only trying to get your attention for ages. Now, as I--"

Serena leans in. Tries to show she's paying proper attention. Her wine glass is mysteriously empty yet again, as is the bottle on the table in front of her. Raf's mouth opens and closes a couple of times, as he clearly struggles to find his words.

"--fuck," he finally says. He smiles, big and drunk and happy, and laughs. "I forget."

Serena pats him on the forearm. "Oh well," she says, "I'm sure you'll remember soon enough if it's important." He nods, agreeing, and concentrates on the dregs of his drink. Serena stands, hand sliding up to his shoulder, and tilts her head at the bar. "I'll just go get us another round."

"Ta," he says, tilting his glass up at her.

She sidles up next to Bernie at the bar--mere coincidence, she tells herself; it's just the rest of the bar is too crowded--and orders another large Shiraz for herself, a pint for Raf. The feel of Bernie's body next to her sends tingles up her spine; the tingles turn to sparks when Bernie, instead of stepping away, presses even closer.

It's only the crowd, she tells herself. Takes a swallow of her wine, then turns to join their little circle. "Is this a private party, or can anyone join?"

Sasha's mouth stretches into a wide smile. "Serena," he says, "Congratulations!"

"Thank you," Serena says. She glances over at Raf, who has been joined by Fletch and a fresh pint and doesn't look like he misses her. "Although it was at least ten percent Bernie."

"Hey!" Bernie says. Her cheeks are flushed, and the whiskey in her hand is clearly not her first of the evening. "A little respect for the, what did you call me in the proposal again? Britain's, no the entire world's I think, preeminent trauma surgeon?"

"Fine, fifteen percent," Serena concedes. "And you do know that I had to pad the truth a bit to get the board on side, right?" She turns to Sasha and Dom, pitches her voice conspiratorially. "I even added a provision about Connie Beauchamp and her staff, pooling resources between AAU and ED to help defray costs, never mind that she couldn't even deign to drink with us for one night."

Sasha laughs at that. Bernie looks between him and Serena, confused. "Well, that's Mrs. Beauchamp for you," Sasha explains. "Never one for a pub."

"True," Serena says.

"And you've volunteered to work with her?" Bernie asks. "Are you sure that's wise?"

"Well," Serena says, "That's why you'll be in charge of the trauma ward. You can liaison with the ED however you see fit."

Bernie keeps ducking her head, hiding behind her fringe again, and Serena suddenly feels guilty about teasing her. "In all honestly," she adds, hand at Bernie's elbow to get her attention, "You do know I couldn't have done any of this without you, right? Wouldn't have even made it to a board vote."

Bernie's smile is small, but genuine, and Serena can't look away. Doesn't want to.

"Ooh," Dom says, pulling at Sasha's arm and half-dragging him away, "Isn't that Ric over there? Didn't you say you needed to talk to him about that thing with that patient?" Sasha grumbles but he follows behind Dom anyway.

Serena stops paying attention to them. She smiles back at Bernie, watches her finish the last of her drink, lick a drop of whiskey from her upper lip. Tries not to be too obvious about staring at her mouth, about how much she wishes it were her licking that spot instead. She feels herself leaning forward a bit. Feels a burst of panic, of a need to deflect, of a need to do something, anything, and a complete inability to act beyond bringing her glass to her mouth. To taking a long swallow, watching as Bernie watches her drink.

When the glass is empty, she puts it down. Takes Bernie's hand in her own, says, "Come on, I need some fresh air," and leads her outside.  

She turns back for just a second as she get their coats, long enough for Dom to give her a ridiculous thumbs up from where he's stood with Sasha and Ric. She flushes--her face feels like it's on fire, like her cheeks must be redder than her lipstick--but powers through the embarrassment.

The night air is chilly and damp. She helps Bernie into her coat, restrains herself from tying her own scarf around Bernie's neck, and they work together on Bernie's buttons. Their hands meeting at the top, Serena's finger slipping onto the bare skin of Bernie's neck. Bernie's hair tickling at her fingers.

"Congratulations," Serena says, and her smile feels wide enough to cut through her cheeks. Bernie's breath is audible outside the din of the pub, small puffs of warmth somehow moving closer and closer. She leans up to press a celebratory kiss to Bernie's cheek, can already see her lipstick staining Bernie's skin, when Bernie turns and their lips meet. Her hands move to Bernie's hair without permission, tangle into her mess of curls as she opens her mouth to Bernie.

Bernie's arms tighten around her waist, inside her still open coat.

Serena pulls Bernie closer, pulls Bernie's hair, kisses Bernie long and hard and like it's the very last time.

*

(Years later, Serena will look back on a Sunday dinner with Bernie, and she will laugh. She will look back on their stilted conversation, on Bernie's hushed "We've become such good friends" and "I've ruined far too many friendships," on her own falsely cheerful agreement. She will look back on Elinor and Charlotte and Cam sat around her dining room table, on the awkward silences and the lack of enough wine, on Elinor glued to her phone and Charlotte ready to bolt and Cam the lone member of their party to look comfortable; she will look back on the surprising ease with which they lie about their romance by talking honestly about all the time they spend together, about their nights at Albie's and dinners around the city. She will look back on it all, and she will laugh until she feels sick.)

*

Bernie goes white at the name on the top of the next candidate's CV. She puts the sheet of paper down on the desk and turns to Serena with wide, panicked eyes. "I can't," she says, pushing the paper toward Serena. "I can't interview her, it wouldn't be. I'm pretty sure there's probably some sort of rule about making personnel decisions about an ex."

She practically spits out the end of her sentence, sounds tripping over sounds, and it takes a second for Serena's mind to separate her words. To parse Bernie's meeting. She glances down at the CV, sounds out the name in her head: Alex Dawson. A quick skim of her qualifications suggests she may well be perfect for their trauma unit, but she asks Bernie if she'd be comfortable working with her anyway. 

Bernie nods. "We're both adults," she adds, "So I'll be fine if she is."

Serena takes her at her word. "Alright," she says. She reaches across their desks, places her hand on top of Bernie's to still her tapping fingers. "I'll interview her, and then we can discuss it further if I think she's a good candidate." 

"She is," Bernie says. Suddenly vehement. "She's brilliant at her job, don't take any of this," she pulls her hand out from Serena's, waves it around as she can pluck the right word from the air, "To suggest any differently."

"Of course not," Serena says. "I'll give her a fair shake, I promise."

She begins to read through Alex Dawson's paperwork in earnest, jotting down notes about questions she wants to ask and things she wants to clarify. Out of the corner of her eye, she watches Bernie twitch her way through some more trauma unit paperwork. She looks like she's about to buzz her way out of her own skin, and Serena is about to suggest that she go do something, anything, else when she stands. Blurts, "I'll be right back. I just," and pulls her cigarettes from her bag and shoves them into the pocket of her hoodie on her way out of the office.

Serena shakes her head. Continues working her way through the stack of papers in front of her. Time passes as she reads and scribbles, but Bernie doesn't return. Serena stands. Stretches out the kinks in her neck, the burn in her lower back. Grabs her own hoodie and decides to join Bernie up on the roof.

Bernie is smoking, something Serena is slowly inoculating herself against, working her way toward finding it unattractive. There's a chill in the air, and Serena zips up her hoodie. Pulls up the hood.

"I'll be right down," Bernie says.

Serena moves to stand next to her. To look out over the city, to enjoy a bit of second-hand smoke (not that she'll admit it to anyone, but there's always a split second when she wants to hold out her hand, ask Bernie to share). "You really ought to quit," she says. 

"Nag, nag, nag," Bernie says. "When they ask why we eventually break up, I'm telling everyone it's because you wouldn't stop nagging me." She licks her finger and pinches the end of her cigarette, stubs it against the ledge and tucks it into her pocket. Tilts her head toward the door and starts walking back. Serena follows, eyes slipping every so often to the sight of Bernie's arse in her scrubs.

"Are you still in love with her?" Serena blurts out--no self-control, just like her mother used to say, too fast to say whatever's on her mind--as she follows Bernie through the door.

Bernie freezes;Serena doesn't. She walks right into Bernie, a curse on her tongue, and then jumps back. "Sorry," she says, "That's none of my. I'll just," and she walks around Bernie's still still body. Down the stairs and back toward AAU without a backward glance. 

*

"I hate you," Serena says, "You should never have come back." 

Fleur pouts over her ridiculous cocktail. "Well," she says, drawing out the word, "In that case, I won't ask you to be part of my wedding party after all."

Serena just barely manages to swallow the wine she'd been drinking, just barely manages to avoid an ignominious spit take. She turns to look at Fleur, can't stop herself smiling at the sight of Fleur's smug grin. Her obvious joy.

"And just for that, I won't accept," Serena says.

"Good," Fleur says. "Can't have a silver haired vixen upstaging me at my own wedding, after all. Better for all involved that you just stay home, don't even attend. Moon over the Wolfe in the privacy of your own home instead of staring at her in formal wear in a tastefully decorated events room."

Serena's hand flutters to her hair, still unsure about her decision to stop coloring it. "I don't moon," she says. 

"And I don't look fabulous with a red lippie and matching pumps," Fleur says. 

"Congratulations." Serena reaches over, rests her hand over Fleur's on the bar. Their fingers tangle, palms pressing together; their barstools are too high to risk reaching across for a hug, so she settles for a squeeze of their hands. "But before I officially accept," she says, "Full disclosure: does Sophia know about us?"

"Does Bernie?" Fleur counters. "Because she clearly suspects something, what with the way she shoots daggers at me with her eyes every time our paths cross. In fact, one night--"

"No," Serena says. "She doesn't, I wouldn't, not without knowing whether Sophia knows. Anyway, we haven't exchanged lists of past lovers, let alone everyone either of us has ever kissed."

"Well, Sophia does," Fleur says. Serena tries to disguise her relief by taking a long swallow of wine, finds herself disappointed that she's at the bottom of her glass already. "Even though we were complicated, between relationships, when I rocked your world so hard you changed teams," she says. 

She waggles her eyebrows ridiculously, and Serena snorts. Doesn't try to disabuseher of the ridiculous theory that she'd turned Serena gay, rather than letting her finally recognize a facet of her sexuality that had always existed. 

"Right, good," Serena says.  "Next round's my shout."

"Ooh," Fleur says. "I'll need a cocktail menu then. I want to order the most expensive drink they offer."

*

(The red phone ringing halfway through Hanssen's speech distracts Serena from her study of Bernie and Alex, stood side by side in matching trauma blue scrubs, from her second thoughts about her own choice of blouse. She's determined not to doubt her decision to hire Alex, even when her and Bernie's heads tilt together in a shared joke. The way Bernie stands tall, proud of their unit and herself and thrumming with confidence, barely glancing over at Serena at all. When the red phone rings, interrupting Hanssen's speech, Fletch calling out details of a train derailment, she berates herself for feeling even the most fleeting bit of relief.)

*

Serena downs her hot pink cocktail in one burning, overly sweet, swallow. She laughs when Sophia finishes her story of Fleur's proposal, tries not to fixate on the fact that she knows that Serena knows what Fleur's mouth tastes like, tries not to question how Sophia looks at her, whether it's different now than it was when Sophia worked on Keller. Her hand moves to her pendant, and she twists the chain between her fingers. Lets the motion ground her, focuses again on Sophia's voice, Fleur's laughter. Any discomfort she feels is still miles better than watching Bernie and Alex flirt their way around the bar. 

Bernie hates social outings like this; much prefers a quiet table, a game of poker, drinking everyone under the table without the added stress of socializing across a room of strangers. Serena's indignant that Alex doesn't seem to recognize this key part of Bernie's personality and keeps dragging her from conversation to conversation, never noticing the uncomfortable set to Bernie's shoulders.

Fleur appears out of nowhere to pluck the empty glass from Serena's hand. "You're staring," she says. She leans into Serena for a second, bumping against her in what feels like some perverse cross between comfort and a threat. "And sulking. Stop it."

"I'm not," Serena says. 

Alex's hand is at the small of Bernie's back. Bernie doesn't seem to mind overly much, hasn't stepped away or even shrugged her off; Serena shifts a bit to her left, sees that Bernie is even smiling. Serena refuses to cry. Refuses to be anything but happy for Fleur, happy for Bernie, happy for everyone pairing up and happy together and deserving of all that bloody happiness. 

Fleur takes two drinks from a passing waiter, hands one to Serena before sipping at her own. "Honestly, Serena, have the two of you considered talking to one another? You're acting like teenagers with their first crushes, and, no offense, but you're neither of you in the first bloom of youth."

She downs her drink. Hands the glass to Fleur. "Right," she says, decision made to enjoy the rest of her evening, Bernie--or anyone else, for that matter--be damned. "How do I look?"

"Stunning, as always," Fleur answers. 

Serena leans in to kiss Fleur's cheek, wipes away the lipstick mark she leaves behind. "Congratulations," she says, meaning it entirely. And then her tone shifts, "And now to stop sulking and have a bit of fun myself."

She puts a little extra oomph into her walk, hips swaying and head held high, as she crosses the room in just the right place to make sure Bernie will see her. Sian is talking to one of Sophia's friends, distractedly scanning the room for eligible men. She calls Serena over the moment she spots her, makes introductions--"Serena, this is Ari; Ari, this is one of my oldest and dearest friends, Serena, the one I was telling you about"--and winks almost audibly at Serena as she excuses herself, claiming she needs the loo. 

Halfway across the room she pauses and turns back. Calls out, "Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

"Subtle," Ari says.

"Subtlety is not Sian's strong suit," Serena says, "But we've been friends since university, and she's always there to stop me getting so caught up in work that I forget to have any fun. Of course, anything she may have told you about me is a complete and utter lie."

"So you weren't a pole dancer to pay your way through Harvard?" Ari asks.

Serena laughs. "Well, you'd have to be far more talented than I ever was," she says, "To pay American school fees on a dancer's wages."

Ari's lovely: closer to Sophia's age than Serena's, but not so young Serena feels dirty placing a hand on her upper arm, leaning closer as they trade quips. A bit butch, necktie loose around her neck and hair buzzed shorter than Serena's own; Serena's not quite ready to imagine the feel of that hair beneath her fingers, but she could see herself getting there with a bit of time. And flirting feels good, always has done, so she continues.

And then Bernie laughs at something--loud, ridiculous, distracting--and Serena has to look. She can't not look, suddenly can't bear to be not looking at Bernie for a moment longer, and she thinks Ari is saying something but it's all background noise because Bernie's looking back at Serena and she's alone.

Ari leans in to ask if Serena wants another drink, and Bernie freezes. Stares at Serena, eyes wide and accusatory, and turns and bolts in the direction of the exit. Serena blinks, feels glued to the floor, caught between following Bernie-- _ catching Bernie before she flees the country _ \--and politely continuing her conversation. 

Fleur gestures at her from across the bar, head tilting toward the exist. Serena's coat and hat are in her arms, and she looks more exasperated than Serena remembers ever seeing her.

"I really am sorry," Serena says, decision made, "But I just saw my friend head for the coat check, and I need to talk to her about something before she leaves."

She doesn't wait for a response, doesn't kiss Ari's cheek and repeat the usual platitudes. She rushes across the bar, lets Fleur help her into her coat, and walks as quickly as her heels will permit toward the exit.

She pushes her way through the throng near the front, shoves the bastard in a pinstriped suit blocking the door with nary an apology. She steps out into the damp night. Wraps her arms around herself and looks for blonde hair, telltale cigarette smoke, a pink duster. It takes a minute for her to accept that Bernie is gone. Nowhere to be found. Alex, however, is; pressed against the side of the building, kissing someone--shorter than Serena, dark curls piled on top of her head, shirt short enough Serena automatically worries about her catching a chill--who is not Bernie at all.

She walks to the taxi stand. Wonders if she's buggered everything up as she waits her turn in the queue.

*

The wedding is--well, it's a wedding, Serena posits, as wonderful and joyful as the next. The wedding party dressed in tasteful navy and grey (in a variety of styles, each suited to the wearer) and two brides who can't keep their hands off each other as they shuffle across the dance floor.

She and Bernie are assigned to the same table, not that Bernie sits there long. She's up and moving the moment it's socially acceptable to do so, and Serena sees neither hide nor tail of her for much of the evening. Just the hint of her turning a corner, a flash of blonde hair disappearing into a shadow. 

She's halfway through a decent enough glass of Shiraz when she spots Bernie ducking into the loo at the back of the ballroom. She doesn't even finish her glass. Just hands it to the person standing next to her, oblivious to who they might be, and beelines for the ladies before she can change her own mind. They need to have this out. And then she can focus on getting completely, properly, sozzled. On Fleur: there is an open bar, after all.

The loo's the sort with a sitting room adjacent, decorated in a shocking pink that is utterly Fleur, utterly perfect for Fleur's wedding. There's also a lock on the door, and Serena only feels a momentary prick of guilt at turning it, reminding herself there's another set of toilets in the corridor nearer the lobby. It's not that there's a queue of women waiting; a glance down the row of stalls confirms that she and Bernie are completely alone.  

"You can tell your children it's my fault," Serena says. 

Bernie blinks at Serena. She's slouched against the wall, rolling an unlit cigarette between her fingers, busy glaring at the smoke detector with such concentration that Serena's not sure she noticed anyone joining her until she opened her mouth.

"Our break-up," Serena continues, unable to stop herself now she's started. She has to keep going. Has to get this out. "Tell them I forgot your birthday or insulted them or that you caught me with another-"

"What break," Bernie starts, her expression contorted and perplexed. And then her face goes blank. Completely, frighteningly, blank. "Oh. You want to, no, of course you're right, we can't keep up this farce much longer, not if you're-"

"I wouldn't call it a farce," Serena argues. The conversation feels like it's spiralling out of control, twisting into something she doesn't understand. This is why she practiced her speech at home, why she repeated it over and over once the fog and hangover of the hen's night had cleared. She hadn't planned for Berenice Bloody Wolfe interrupting, though, refusing to let Serena explain; she hadn't planned for Bernie to say anything at all--

"-interested in someone else," Bernie is saying. 

"Clearly," Serena says. "You--you're still in love with Alex, you practically admitted it, and I'm sorry she seems to have moved on, but maybe once she's knows we're not together, you two can try again."

"What?" Now Bernie seems confused again, and Serena's mind goes white. Spirals with doubt, with blame, with guilt, with the fear that she's just told Bernie something she didn't already know, and that she failed to say something more important. 

She feels dizzy, slides down to the floor in the vain hope that the room will stop trying to slide out from under her. "I was coming after you," she says. "I-- saw Alex snogging some-"

"Jean," Bernie says, sitting down next to her, inching close enough that their thighs touch. Serena's grateful for the wall at her back. The solidity of the floor, pink carpet and all, beneath her. "No, Gina. They've been together for about a month, I think?"

"Then, I'm not sure what," Serena starts. 

Bernie places her hand on Serena's knee, palm up, fingers slightly curled: unmistakably an offer. "I've been told I need to be brave," Bernie says, cutting into the silence. "I'm going to be brave."

"Bernie," Serena says. She turns her head. Waits until Bernie looks back at her. "You are already the bravest, more fearless doctor I know. You--"

Bernie kisses her. Kisses her as she tries to say  _ you don't have to be brave _ , tries to say  _ let's be brave together _ , tries to say  _ I mean it this time.  _ Licks into Serena's mouth at the first syllable, swallows every vowel and every consonant alike. 

They kiss until Serena starts to feel like kissing Bernie is the reason she was put on this earth, the only thing worth doing, suddenly convinced that she ought to give up medicine in order to dedicate herself more fully to her new-found purpose. Bernie grunts, adjusts her position on the floor, and Serena climbs over her. Knees on either side of Bernie's legs, close and pressing closer, hands forever in Bernie's hair. 

Bernie's hand moves to Serena's breast--and she really shouldn't feel it that much, with her dress and bra between Bernie's skin and her own--when there's a bang on the door, another, and they break apart, teeth clanking, hysterical and laughing against each others' skin.

"Sorry!" Serena calls out, once she mostly catches her breath, "I think there's another ladies off the lobby!"

The knocking stops, and there's a cackling apology and the clatter of heels finally walking away.

"Oh god," Bernie says, "Is that-"

"No, it is not," Serena decides, "It is not Fleur, it was never Fleur, and in fact it was a complete stranger who will not tease me for the rest of eternity about the fact that she caught me sat on the floor of an event hall loo with my hand up Bernie Wolfe's skirt."

Bernie looks ready to laugh at her. Like she's going to choke trying to swallow her laughter. "To be fair, your hand hadn't quite made it," she starts, as she helps Serena shift off her lap, as Serena quirks her eyebrow, "Right, not the point."

They help each other to their feet, each ignoring the other's creaks and snapping joints, eventually determining that they're best served not touching as they adjust their clothing.

"I thought I'd fucked this all up," Serena says, once they've calmed down, straightened themselves up as best they can without access to a hairbrush, a steamer, a makeup kit. Once they're just about ready to return to the drunken revelry of a wedding reception in progress, clothes a little rumpled, makeup a little smudged. "Ruined my chance with you."

Bernie chuckles. "Well I thought I had when I threatened Fleur's life," she says.

Serena doesn't know what to say. "You what?"

"I told her I knew thirteen ways to kill her with my bare hands," Bernie says. "Um, needless to say, that was before I knew she was engaged, just saw her flirting with you and it slipped out. She, uh, didn't say?"

"No," Serena says. Bernie turns away, starts walking toward the door, and Serena decides to change the subject. To lighten the mood. To flirt a bit, now that it's real. "Only thirteen? I'd bet I know more than that just from my medical training."

"Oh really?" Bernie turns to face her. Hands sliding around Serena's waist, mouth in a flirtatious smirk. 

"Fourteen, at least," Serena says. Her hands seem drawn to Bernie's hair somehow, like magnets and iron, like Bernie is drawn to a flashy surgery, and she gives in to the urge to touch. To twist a curl around her finger, to play with the blonde strands and mess up all the work Bernie'd just put in to make herself presentable. To pull Bernie in for another kiss, and another, to press her up against the locked door and ignore the barely audible dance music from outside for one minute more.


End file.
